


words over all

by LadyCharity



Series: between the crosses [7]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Brotherhood of Man, Comfort of Strangers, Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, Prequel, War, bastardization of the german language i'm sorry, fic of a fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24339385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyCharity/pseuds/LadyCharity
Summary: Just as Will was about to pull the ghost through the loose thread of his sleeve, the ghost backed away immediately.“No,” he said. “No, I need your help.”“I can take you to where you need to go next," Will said.“I can’t go,” said the ghost. “Not yet. There's one more thing I need to do.”-William Schofield; or, a modern-day Antigone
Relationships: William Schofield & Original Male Character(s)
Series: between the crosses [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656289
Comments: 16
Kudos: 33





	words over all

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pavuvu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavuvu/gifts), [Ealasaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Resonance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22472440) by [Pavuvu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavuvu/pseuds/Pavuvu). 
  * Inspired by [hold it high](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22855570) by [Ealasaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid), [Pavuvu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavuvu/pseuds/Pavuvu). 



> Hello!! Thank you for checking this fic out. I am excited to share it, especially to the ones who inspired it, Pavuvu and Ealasaid. This is a fic of a fic, or rather, their series of _between the crosses_ and their mythos of Will being able to see and collect ghosts. This does not attempt to be canon in any way, shape, or form in their universe. Timeline-wise, I kept it conveniently vague, but I sort of imagine that this would take place before Will meets Tom, and perhaps even before the Somme, when Will has not yet been sent to the front lines (within the timeline of _Resonance_ perhaps?). If you're here and you haven't read their [between the crosses](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656289) series, do so immediately!! The magic of ghosts in this story would not be understood well without it.
> 
> Huge thanks to Pavuvu and Ealasaid for letting me play with their world and also answering my questions about ghost mechanisms. This story is inspired by a conversation Ealasaid and I had about Will and the topic of language. I also want to credit two plays that really inspired me in this story-- _Woman on Fire_ by Marisela Treviño Orta, and by transitive property, Sophocles' _Antigone_. The former is a play about the ghost of a woman who died while crossing the Mexican-American border who haunts another woman married to a border patrol agent asking to be buried. 
> 
> Please excuse my historical inaccuracies, I did not live up to Ealasaid and Vuvu's diligent historical research that they do for their stories weeps. For the record, there probably weren't that many trench cellos in circulation. 
> 
> Without further ado, the story! Thank you <3
> 
> Edit: The generous Ealasaid and Vuvu have let me add this to their series!! EMIL IS A CANON GHOST, COMRADES <3\. Much thanks to them!!

> WORD over all, beautiful as the sky!
> 
> Beautiful that war, and all its deeds of carnage, must in
> 
> time be utterly lost;
> 
> That the hands of the sisters Death and Night, incessantly
> 
> softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world:
> 
> …For my enemy is dead—a man divine as myself is dead;
> 
> I look where he lies, white-faced and still, in the coffin—I
> 
> draw near;
> 
> I bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face
> 
> in the coffin.
> 
> -Walt Whitman, ‘Reconciliation’

The man was sobbing, which made it hard for Will to think. It would be cruel to blame the German, because his stomach and chest were shot through, and he was half buried in the mud after a shell had overturned the earth. Even Goliath would shit his pants in such a situation. 

“Ich will nach Hause,” he wept. “Bitte, bitte...”

Each of the German’s sobs could only be wheezed out, since his lungs were spent, and yet he continued to moan and stutter. If he was annoying, it couldn’t be helped. Will was stuck in the crater with him, until the shelling stopped and he could go forward with the rest of his unit. The moment that Will slid into the crater to take cover and saw that one of the bodies already occupying it was still moving, he hastily kicked away any knife or pistol within the German’s reach. The man did not protest, and even if he wanted to, he spent his wasting breaths on the same phrase instead.

The German reached out a trembling hand and grasped Will’s sleeve. Will reacted immediately, pulling away and holding out a hand in defense, except there was not much more the German could do anymore. Even if he had one last grenade strapped to his belt, he was buried in the mud from the waist down. The German looked Will in the eyes as he spoke.

“Ich will nach Hause,” he stuttered.

“Save your breath,” Will said, not unkindly. “I don’t know what you’re saying.” 

The German’s face screwed in pain. He was not much older than Will, but with his legs buried in the mud and his chapped lips trembling uncontrollably, he looked like a child. Perhaps, if he saved his breath, he would have several seconds longer to live, and yet he would not stop. And he would not give them to anyone but Will, who didn’t understand. 

“Ich will nach Hause,” he said. 

“What are you saying?” Will said. 

It would not help either of them if he knew, and yet he felt as if he ought to. He was stuck in a crater with a dying man, and he did not understand his last words.

“Ich--Ich--” 

The man choked. His mouth moved, but the only sounds that came out now were choppy and guttural, almost animal. Then, his face stilled, and he fell entirely silent, which mattered little, because the shells were still whistling and the gunfire was still rattling and there was not enough space in Will’s head. 

Will turned away, as if to give the dead man a semblance of dignity. When he looked back, a trembling, crying ghost was curled up on his side.

“I want to go home,” he sobbed. “No more, no more, I just want to go home.”

Will sighed heavily. It had been easier not knowing.

“Ah,” he said quietly. “Now I get it.” 

He spun the ghost into a thread, tied it around the buttonholes of his uniform, and crawled out of the crater.

-

Weltschmerz:

A melancholy from knowing that the world will always fail to meet your expectations because of the prevalence of pain existing throughout it

-

For Will, it was never quiet on the western front. Whether he was crouching in the trench darning his filthy socks or trying to catch some sleep or sitting with his unit eating gruel, there were always several voices crying out from No Man’s Land, begging for help or screaming in terror, always in pain. If he had to be honest, he did not know if this was the result of ghosts, or if there truly were men perpetually dying in the fields. If he asked his fellow soldiers and they said they heard nothing, it was likely it was because they too have simply gotten used to the noise. 

It went without saying that it was unwise to call out to them. He drew enough wary attention from his officers as it was. And more often than not, when he went over the top, the focus was to not become a ghost himself, and therefore many were left uncollected in his haste. The Grim would take care of them, Will was sure, but he could not but feel as if he let them down. Dying alone was hard enough--to be dead alone must be frightening. 

Will had a naturally softer voice, and his fingers were only nimble with threads, not strings. He would need help to shepherd the spirits. So when the charge ended, and those who were left huddled in the mud with exhaustion, he would scrounge for a trench cello in the unit. He would go around the line, asking if anyone could play. Sometimes, he would get lucky, and the willing soldier would prop the trench cello up against him and eke out Bach from the rectangular instrument. Several soldiers would sit round the musician, and Will would linger in the back, waiting.

Slowly, but surely, the ghosts would hear the music. 

Bach would interrupt their long-past terror, and they would for a moment forget that they had died frightened. The sobbing subsided, surprised to hear music coming from the mud, and gradually, they came. English, French, German, they all flocked to the music, the shared language between enemies and between planes of existence. Ghosts slid down the sandbags to join the audience. Ghosts sat at the edge of the trench wall to listen. Ghosts hummed to the Sarabande. Ghosts shared a moment, an experience with the living, perhaps for the last time. 

When the music finally stopped, Will wound up the ghosts like a spool of endless thread. He need not say a word, and they did not protest. He tucked them into his lapel, threaded them with his buttons, and pinned them to the hem of his sleeve, and carried them until he could reach a cemetery. He swore, but couldn’t be too certain, that for the days that he carried them, he could hear them all humming. 

-

Geborgenheit:

A deep sense of safety and security and wellbeing, of being home with the ones you love. Uncountable. 

-

The ghost was a German. And he was a pain in Will’s arse.

He was close to the back of the line of those listening to the musician soldier play one of the suites on the trench cello. As Will beckoned the other ghosts into his pocket, this particular one dodged away from his grasp, eyes wide. 

“You can see me,” he said. 

Will knew that the ghost was not speaking in English, but he comprehended him all the same in a way that he could not with the living. He wondered, should he speak back, if the ghost would hear him in German or in English. 

Will shot the ghost a knowing but silent look. There were still living soldiers mulling about this side of the trench, collecting themselves after listening to the music. It was not a big enough crowd that if Will were to talk to himself, no one would notice. 

“Can you hear me?” the ghost said. 

Will dipped his head in a nod. The ghost suddenly exclaimed in relief and clambered forward, desperate hands gripping at the front of Will’s uniform, only for the fingers to go through. 

“Can you help me?” he said.

The ghost had freckles dusted across his face, and his hair was curly under his helmet. Like all other ghosts, he looked as if he were made of watercolour. Will was always mistaken to believe that if he were to touch them, they would feel like paper. But when he moved to gently pry the ghost’s hands from his front, he felt nothing at all. 

“I am going to help you,” he murmured. “Come on, now.”

Just as he was about to pull the ghost through the loose thread of his sleeve, the ghost backed away immediately. 

“No,” he said. “No, I need your help.” 

“I know,” Will said. “I can take you to where you need to go next.”

“I can’t go,” said the ghost. “Not yet. There’s one more thing I need to do.” 

His voice hitched in panic. He might have been around Will’s age, easily could be younger, but age hardly mattered in the trenches when everyone was too young to die regardless. Will bit his lip; many ghosts were like this--in denial, aching for the family they left behind and the years they had not yet spent. 

“It’s easier this way,” he said. “Trust me. I’ll take care of you.” 

“Oi, Schofield.” A soldier--a living one, anyway--bumped him on the shoulder. Will jumped. “I said, you coming along to get some food?” 

Will flashed the soldier (living) a quick smile. 

“In a minute,” he said. 

When he was left alone, he turned back to the troublesome ghost, who petulantly kept himself just out of arm’s reach. 

“What is the matter?” he said. 

The ghost shook his head, although a worrying look lingered in his green eyes. 

“I need you to go to my body,” said the ghost. 

Will stared helplessly at the ghost. The ghost seemed coherent enough, not trapped in memories of his last seconds. He must have been dead for some time now. Wherever his body was, there was likely no hope in salvaging it. 

“I can’t help you with that,” he said. 

“It isn’t far from here,” said the ghost. “I died surrounded by your lot, it is closer to here. It isn’t a long way away--”

“If I go into No Man’s Land on my own, I’ll be dead alongside you. Then no one will help you.”

“Please!” the ghost said. “Please, no one else can see me but you. No one else would be able to find my body except you.” 

“I can’t,” Will said. His panic rose in great waves. “You can’t ask that of me.” 

“I know,” said the ghost. “But I’ve got to try.” 

Will shook his head. It would be madness. Easily suicide. And for what? What would a ghost want from him seeing his body? There was nothing Will could do for it anymore--even burying it would be of poor taste, because the chances were likely that the boy was dead six feet under mud to begin with. 

“Come on,” he said, reaching for the ghost. “Just--let me take you to the Grim. It’ll be easier this way, I promise. It’ll be--”

The ghost turned and ran away. Will instinctively called out to him-- _hey!_ \--and startled some passing soldiers turning the corner in the trench line. 

“What’s your problem, mate?” one of the soldiers (living) demanded. 

“Nothing,” Will said. “Sorry--thought you were someone I recognised.” 

“Poor bloke,” he heard one of them say as they passed by him. “You probably share a face with a dead man, Abernathy.” 

He tried to look for where the ghost had run--he could not have gone far--but if the ghost was still there, he would have been indistinguishable from the soldiers that still breathed as of yet, passing in and out of the trenches. 

-

Waldeinsamkeit:

The feeling of being alone in the wild, of experiencing nothing but the world around you.

-

Will thought that that would be the last of the ghost he would see. He was wrong. 

The ghost returned while Will was refilling the sandbags. He looked nervous, like a child asking a father for a bicycle. Considering the ghost’s age, it was probably not a far off comparison. Will had never dealt with a ghost gone rogue, and he could not help but feel like the prodigal son’s father waiting for the wayward child to come to his senses. 

“Are you ready to come to the Grim yet?” Will said.

“How come I understand you?” said the ghost.

Will furrowed his brow. He did not pause in his work, and let the sound of wet, packing sand speak over him so that no one else could hear. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said. 

“You aren’t speaking German,” said the ghost. “I know you aren’t, and yet I understand what you are saying.” 

Will shook his head. He did not exactly strike many conversations with ghosts during his time in France. Few of them really cared for banter moments after losing their lives. 

“It’s like listening to music,” the ghost mused. “I think--I _think_ \--I understand you when you speak. But I could be wrong, for all I know. I could be interpreting it far differently from what you mean. But I know what it _feels_ in me, your words. What it stirs in my chest.” 

Why was this ghost so persistent, and with him, no less? It should not escape either of them that Will could have easily been the one who caused this boy’s demise. 

“Is it the same for you?” said the ghost. “Er--assuming, that what I say comes across immediately to you?” 

“I don’t know,” Will said wearily. 

_“ Can_ you speak German?” said the ghost. “Or--can you write German?” 

Will shot the ghost an appraising look. There was no mirth in the boy’s face, not even sheepishness. His question was earnest, which struck Will even more. 

“No,” he said. 

“No matter, I can teach you if need be,” the ghost said, more to himself than to Will. “It shouldn’t be hard, I can spell it out for you. The alphabet is similar, is it not? And if you understand me--although, would it come out to you as English or as German--?” 

“What do you want from me?” Will cut in easily. 

The ghost quieted, his spotted face somber. 

“I’ve told you,” he said. “I need you to go to my body.” 

“And I cannot do that,” said Will. “What I can do is take your spirit--” 

“I can’t leave!” the ghost said. “Not yet. There’s something I still need to do--”

“You can’t do anything anymore,” said Will harshly. “You’re dead.” 

The ghost stuttered. Will immediately regretted his tone, albeit not his words. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly, I am.”

“I will pay you,” the ghost said feverishly.

Will froze, a sandbag threatening to topple from the top of his stack.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“I can pay you,” the ghost said. He hooked his finger around the corner of his lips and pulled back. “See there?” 

“What are you talking about?” Will said bewilderedly.

“I’ve got a golden tooth,” said the ghost. “There, my left bottom molar. It is gold. When you go to my body, you can pry it out of my mouth.” 

Will stumbled back, until he hit against the muddied wall of the trench.

“How could you suggest such a thing?” Will said.

“It’s yours if it would help you!” the ghost said. 

“I’m not a grave robber,” Will said. “Nor am I a mutilator.” 

“I wouldn’t mind,” said the ghost. “I’m not a pretty sight anymore. What would missing teeth change? I died closer to your side than to mine, you won’t get shot at, I promise--” 

Will stacked the sandbags high, so that he could hide behind them from the others. He could already feel their eyes turning towards him in suspicion. 

“You can’t promise me anything,” said Will. “For all I know, you will lure me out so that your snipers can get to me, and shoot me dead.”

“What good is one dead Englishman to me?” said the ghost. “To anyone?” 

Will did not know, but he did not doubt that the hunger for vengeance stopped after death. 

“Please—what’s your name?” said the ghost. 

“Schofield,” Will could not help but answer out of politeness. 

“Schofield, please. I am not exaggerating. You are the only one who can help. Otherwise, I am alone. There is something that I need you to get from my body.” 

“Whatever it is, you cannot take it with you,” Will said. He wished he could put his hands on the ghost’s shoulder and steady him, for both the ghost’s sake and his own. He could see the panic rise in the dead man--the ghost gradually sicklied over as death waited impatiently for him to follow. “If you won’t come with me, then there is nothing I can do--”

The ghost dug his fingers into his hair and groaned with frustration, tugging at his curls. 

“You are not alone,” Will urged. “Plenty of others will go with you when the Grim comes. It isn’t frightening. It’ll be worse if you stay--”

“No, no,” said the ghost. “No, not alone. I said I would be alone.”

“Is that not what I just said?” said Will. “Alone?” 

“No!” The ghost covered his face with his hands. “The word, why are you saying that word? Can you not hear what I say?” 

“You are saying the word ‘alone,’” Will said. He knew that he was dealing with a boy who by all means had been traumatised, but he was human himself--in the midst of grief and regret and shame, he felt overwhelming frustration. “What else am I supposed to repeat?” 

“You are not repeating anything, though,” the ghost said. He lowered his hands, until he stared at Will with wide, accusing green eyes just above his fingers. “Do you not have that word in English? Alone?” 

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say,” Will said, heat rising in the back of his neck. “How could the word ‘alone’ mean differently to you?” 

“The word you use, it is too small,” said the ghost. “It means--it means too small, it does not mean enough. When you say it, it feels like not enough in my chest. Here, listen to me-- _listen_ \--and tell me, if it is the same in your heart. Alone.” He leaned closer towards Will with anticipation. “Alone.” 

Will wanted to shrug the ghost off, but when he stopped to listen, something clenched in his chest. It was wrenching, hollowing, all at once, as if the word that he thought he knew the meaning of was secretly a pipe bomb that set off in his body, causing far more damage than he thought it would. Suddenly, the images of his wife and daughters crossed his mind, but so far away even in his mind’s eye that they might as well be ghosts like the dead men around him, and his breath shook. 

He lifted his eyes to meet the ghost’s, and he swallowed hard.

“No,” he said. “No, I do not think we have such a word in English.” 

The ghost bit his lip. It made him look all the more childish. Even when death ought to equalise them, they were still breadths apart--this ghost with his German tongue could not truly understand or be understood by Will, not when his sense of expression was shaped by a language that Will had no experience in. 

“Then,” said the ghost, and his voice wavered. “I truly am alone.” 

He drew back, his shoulders shaking slightly. Before Will’s eyes, the ghost shuddered, and his colour seemed to trickle away, as if he was being scrubbed away. 

“You have to follow me,” Will said. He kept his voice as low as possible--he had lost control just earlier, and now some of the other men on sandbag duty were shooting him uneasy looks. One of the men was whispering to their lance corporal, and Will tried his damndest to not stare. “I don’t know what will happen to you if you do not, but I’m afraid of what it may be.” 

“I don’t care what happens to me--”

“You say that, but this isn’t about life and death anymore,” Will shot back. “We’re well past that. This is--this could be about eternity. If you don’t follow me, and--and the Grim cannot find you, who knows what will become of your soul, if you would fade into nothingness instead?” 

“Then _help_ me,” said the ghost petulantly. “Help me follow you by following me first. You are the only one who can see me. You’re the only one who could do what I _wish_ I could do on my own.” 

“I cannot climb over the top on my own,” Will said. “If I don’t get shot at by your lot first, it’ll be my lot who will think I’ve gone mad. What in the world do you _want_?”

The look on the ghost’s face chills Will. Suddenly, that youthful, foolish face was grave and grey, and so tired. 

“I want to make my sister laugh until she can hardly breathe,” he said. “I want to teach my nephew how to play the fiddle. I want my niece to remember who I am.” His voice broke. “I want to climb up onto the hilltop and watch the sun set and then lie on my back and count the stars.” 

His eyes glistened, and before he could stop himself, the tears streaked down his cheeks. He raised a puzzled hand to his face, and he let out a startled sigh.

“I didn’t know I could still do that,” he said. 

A lump formed in Will’s throat. The ghost hastily dragged his wrist over his eyes, slapped his cheeks to steady himself, and drew in a deep breath, even though his lungs could no longer contract. 

“Why?” Will said. “At least tell me why.” 

The ghost looked away. The furtive motion made Will’s nerves spike with unease, but the ghost drew himself in as if cold, holding tightly on his arms as if he could make himself smaller. The truth stayed his tongue. 

“Well?” said Will. “Will you tell me or not?” 

“If I tell you,” said the ghost. “If I tell you, will you promise me-- _if you go to my body--_ that you will do it?” 

“I wouldn’t be going to your body for many other reasons, I can assure you that,” Will couldn’t help but say.

“I need to trust you, Schofield,” said the ghost. “I need to trust--trust that you will be honest--”

“You’ve trusted me this far,” Will said. “I’ve given you no reason to, and yet you have.” 

The ghost nodded to himself. He raised his gaze to Will once more, as if to search for the truth that Will did not know how to tell on his face, before he reached a hand into his coat. He pulled out a small tin, which made Will’s heart skip a beat against a matching tin of his own. The ghost opened the tin, and in it, several sheets of paper written in German. 

“I need you,” the ghost said in a quiet voice, “to send these to my sister. I never got the chance before I--before--” 

Will’s heart sank. Disappointment was not the word that he was looking for, but he could not think of a better one. Perhaps there was a more fitting word in German, but Will would not know it. It just all seemed so small, a tin of letters. So small to put himself on the line for. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” the ghost said quickly. “I know--I know it just seems like sentiment, but it’s--I need for my sister to read these. I put the bread on her table, for her little ones. My pay as a soldier, it’s feeding them, and without me now, they’ll--” The dread of something after his death made his voice die away. He swallowed hard. “This will help them. This will keep them safe now that I’m--now that I am gone. Please. Our parents died when we were young. The children have no father anymore, and we have no other family. My sister works as hard as she can but it isn’t enough. Without me, they’ll starve. They’ll be alone.” 

The word tore at Will’s chest again, and he knew that the ghost meant it. He raised a hand to the translucent tin, even though he knew that he could not touch it. He could not read these words--they were written by the living, and therefore not his domain. He could only assume that the ghost was not lying to him. His hand went through, and it left his fingertips cool. 

“What are their names?” Will asked, in spite of himself. 

“My sister’s name is Lotte,” said the ghost. “And her little ones--my nephew is Rolf. Little Inge is my niece.” 

Their names were the straw that broke the camel’s back, both for Will and the ghost. The ghost’s lips trembled at the shape of their names, and it seemed as if the full weight of death had finally fallen upon his shoulders. Thus began the grieving process for himself, as he was forced now to say goodbye to the living. With each tear that fell from the ghost’s eyes, the remnants of saltwater seemed to wash him away stroke by stroke, until the grisly sunlight paled him further. 

Will could not stop himself from thinking of Hortensia and Calpurnia, safe and warm with Ellie by his mother and father’s hearth. Whatever may happen to him would be devastating and difficult, he knew--but his wife and children would at least not be alone. He almost imagined his little girls going hungry, and the thought was more suffocating than if the mud that the sandbags miserably kept at bay fell upon him. 

“I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t important, Schofield,” the ghost said. “I wouldn’t ask this of you if there was any other hope I had, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what to do.” 

Will closed his eyes. He did not know what to do either. If he went over the top with no battle, his comrades would question him. They would ask him where he was going, and who was leading him. And he would have no idea how to reply. 

He opened his eyes again, looking down at the old biscuit tin in the ghost’s hands. His own tobacco tin was warm and heavy against his chest. In another world, maybe he would have been the dead man, asking a Bosche who could see ghosts to send word back to his family that he loved him, that he could help them one last time. Maybe he would be the one begging. 

He lifted his eyes to the ghost. They must be the same age. The ghost’s hair was dark and curly, and his eyes were round and green. His body would not be recognisable by now. Will would not be able to find him on his own. 

“At nightfall,” he said. He took in a deep breath. “Show me the way.” 

-

Mutterseelenallein:

To be completely, utterly alone. Incomparable. 

-

It was a half moon. Will could hardly make out the ghost in the thinned light. The ghost too looked weary, eyes glazed over as he lingered more than he moved. Will wondered how long he had wandered No Man’s Land as a ghost, until he heard the trill of the trench cello from the English trenches. He wondered if they had enough time. 

“If you fade before I can take you to the Grim,” said Will. “If we are not able to make it in time--” 

The ghost shook his head, and Will quieted. 

They picked their way down the trench line. Soldiers shuddered as the ghost passed through them, and when they looked over their shoulders to see where Will was going, Will braced himself. 

“Here,” the ghost said. 

He climbed over the ladder to the top with ease, now that the weight of his pack and uniform meant nothing. Will took in a deep breath. There were still people around him, minding their own business but not distracted enough to not notice if he were to climb over the top. He would not blame them if they thought him mad for what he was about to do, for what they would see him do. To hope that it would not change anything for him was a fool’s hope. 

The ghost must have been able to see the worry on Will’s face, albeit not for the reasons he assumed. 

“The offer of my teeth still stands, you know,” the ghost said. 

“Absolutely not,” Will said. 

He placed his hands on the rung of the wooden ladder. His heart beat more heavily than he thought it would, at the prospect of being seen. He had spent dusk trying to think of what to say if someone asked where the hell he was going. Every option seemed more foolish than the last. 

He could tell the ghost now that he changed his mind, that he wasn’t going to put himself on the line. The ghost’s fate was not his business--he would hardly be able to resist if Will spun him into the threads of his clothing now. Will would not protest if the ghost ran away from him again, and was left to fade away on his own in the fields (but truthfully, he would). And yet, as these temptations crossed his mind, he thought of a young woman and her two children who did not ask to be a part of this war, and his mind was made. 

As if he was about to plunge downward instead of rise upward, he took in a deep breath, and climbed up the ladder.

“Schofield!” one of his fellow soldiers called out. “The hell are you doing?” 

“I’ll be back,” Will said.

“Are you bleeding mad?”

“I said, I’ll be back.” 

He rose to his feet. The horizon of barbed wire and rigor mortis greeted him. The ghost shimmered in the starlight. He opened his mouth, and then closed it, because there was no word in any language to express the gratitude that he wanted to convey. Will shook his head, and gestured with his hand as if to say, after you. 

It was treacherous to cross No Man’s Land in the dark, when the wrong step could send him toppling into a crater and drowning in a cesspool, or straight into a nest of barbed wire. A dormant landmine could easily explode under his feet if he was not careful, or a sharp-eyed German sniper could finish him off if they spotted him in the distance. Will could not hold onto the ghost to guide him, and even if he could it would make little difference, as the ghost hardly had feet to stumble over. Miraculously, Will did not fall, and his feet found solid ground with each step. 

No Man’s Land felt timeless, so it felt immediate and like eternity when the ghost finally stopped in his tracks. Will walked through him, and felt the chill in his blood. He pulled away quickly and turned to the ghost.

“What is it?” he said.

“Here I am,” said the ghost.

The moonlight fell upon the body lying in the cold earth. He was no longer recognisable--even his uniform was tattered and filthy compared to the ghost’s. No trace of the ghost’s Roman nose or pale freckles. His curls--if they were there at all--were matted with crusting mud. 

The ghost stared down at himself, his gaze unreadable. Will could not imagine what it must be like to see his own decay. He could make out a misshapen arm draped over the chest in a similar way that the ghost held himself now. He gingerly knelt by the body’s side, reconciling the alien appearance of the decomposing corpse with the undeniable humanity of its spirit haunting him. 

Will slowly peeled open the jacket. He reached into the inner pocket, and sure enough, he felt the cool, smooth surface of the biscuit tin. He wriggled it out, and heard the paper rustling inside. The metal shone like a pearl in the moonlight. He ought to have asked permission first, but Will pried open the box. Inside, the very same letters lay, written in careful, loving ink. 

“Emil,” Will read the signature aloud. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” 

He looked up. For a moment, his heart stood still, because he did not see the ghost, but when he caught the shadow of his coal-dark hair against the clouded night sky, he breathed a sigh of relief. The ghost was slumped on the ground before him, as if he had finally finished the long race and had no more strength left to walk home. 

“Yes,” he said. His voice was barely above a whisper. “My name is Emil.” 

Will returned the lid to the tin. He slipped it inside his pocket--it was a bit bulkier than his own tin, tight against his uniform, but it did not bother Will. It would not be for long.

“Their address is in there as well,” said Emil. “Please--tell them, if you can. Tell them--no, there will never be enough words for that. You would not be able to write them. Tell them--that I love them. More than anything. Please…” 

He closed his eyes. Will reached a hand out to him, and in a soft, coaxing motion, wrapped the ghost around his finger like a silvery ring. Emil did not resist, and when Will threaded him carefully into his scarf, he could feel Emil’s spirit curl up within the yarn, like a child who was finally rocked to sleep. He put a hand over Emil’s biscuit tin, to assure himself that it was there.

“You already have,” Will said. 

He gave Emil’s body one last look. He reached over and plucked a handful of scraggly poppies growing along the jagged scars of the battlefield and lay them across Emil’s chest, across his face. Then, after taking a deep breath, he climbed back onto his feet, and walked away. 

On a quiet day on the western front, a German soldier woke up dead. He found himself floating in the rainwater, left behind. He looked upon what was left of him and wept bitterly, until he heard the singing of a trembling cello. 

He had been a pianist in life--with long fingers and a sharp ear for playing what he heard. He recognised Bach immediately. He had grown up practising his sinfonias. He had fallen asleep to his mother playing inventios on the violin. Something stirred in his chest--long-forgotten, long-lost geborgenheit. He did not know that he could still have that. 

He got onto his feet and followed the music. Around him, other ghosts trickled towards the music as well. The music led them to a small corner of the British trenches, where a soldier played the Sarabande on the inelegant cello, and a small gathering of soldiers sat cross-legged to listen. 

The soldier sat on the edge of the trench wall, between a French soldier and an Indian soldier, and listened to the trills and sweeping crescendos. He ached for home. He longed for somewhere that he did not know yet, and did not know why he wanted it. 

An Englishman a little ways off caught his eye. He did not stand to listen to the music--no, the Englishman was looking at him. At all of them. One hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sheet of paper. He dipped his head in a nod, and the German soldier understood. 

He made his way off of the trench wall and towards the Englishman, who was tall and pale with eyes too kind. Before the soldier made it to him, he hastily looked down at the paper, mouthed the words to himself quietly, and then looked the soldier in the eye. 

“Alles wird gut,” said the Englishman. His accent was childlike, clumsy and earnest. “Ich--Ich werde dir helfen.”

Peace enveloped the soldier, and he nearly sobbed aloud in relief. He held out a hand towards the Englishman, who took it and embroidered the ghost along the hem of his collar. He did so with the others who had come until his clothes were laced with ghosts, and when the clock struck midnight, he led them home. 


End file.
